Playing the Long Game
by DemonSurfer
Summary: Behind closed doors, their partnership was anything but typical. Sometimes a game had to be played. One-shot


**A/N: **So this was rather heavily inspired by Florence + the Machine's "Girl With One Eye". If you haven't heard it, go listen.

Now then. I've seen a couple of different interpretations of Knock Out's character and his relationship with Breakdown. Sometimes they're simply partners. Sometimes (okay, a lot of times) they're bondmates, or at least romantically involved. Most fans seem to feel that there's some sort of two-way affectionate relationship going on.

However, Knock Out is a narcissist and a sadist, and probably has some sort of Napoleon complex by virtue of being the smallest and weakest officer on the ship. He's not nice. He's not affectionate. He's arrogant, self-centered, and controlling. And upon listening to "Girl With One Eye", I couldn't help but think up a scenario where Knock Out would use his partner to his advantage.

Note that they're still partners. They still look out for one another. But sometimes, a control game has to be played, and there's only one person on the ship who's both tough and low-ranking enough for the game.

As this is a one-shot, I'd like to thank in advance everyone that reads, reviews, and favorites.

* * *

Knock Out gives him a look, and he knows what's coming.

Before, he would have run, or tried to fight back. He knows better now. Knows that when the ship's only medic gives you that _look_ there's nothing you can do but quietly lock the medical bay doors.

If the medic wanted him to struggle, to fight back, he would have taken him by surprise. An energon prod at half-strength, jabbed into the gap in his armor under his arm. He would prefer it, actually. It would end with more damage, but it would be over quicker. Instead, one long, delicate claw points at the berth, and he obediently climbs onto it. It's uncomfortable, built for repairing tiny drones and aerial officers, but he doesn't complain beyond a grimace. This, at least is permitted. A frown, a wince, but no sound. Not until Knock Out lets him. The medic is playing the long game tonight, and he can do nothing but lay back as instructed.

The restraints startle him, thick metal bands meant to contain even his strength, and it takes quite a bit of will power not to struggle. He can't help but associate being restrained with his brief capture, and that's the point. The medic knows what the restraints do to him, and he fights to keep his rising panic at bay. It wouldn't do to give in, not yet.

There would be more to be afraid of, later.

Knock Out hums, taking his time to collect various instruments and deposit them on a tray next to the table. There is the faint sound of music, some sort of human tune, though he has no idea what its name is. He is too busy forcing down his terror, trying not to focus on the rattle and clink as the medical tools increase. He knows it's part of the game, that the medic wants him to be terrified, but he's not allowed to show it. Not yet.

The first tool takes him completely by surprised. So focused on ignoring his surroundings that he misses the high whine of the drill right before it plunges into his plating. The medic tuts at his gasp of pain, twisting the drill once as a punishment before slowly pulling it from his side. He can feel the scrape of his plating against the bit, the slow trickle of energon from a nicked line. The wound is minor, insignificant. A little love-nip to see if he's paying attention. He could easily shut down the receptors in his side, deaden the pain and pretend it didn't even hurt.

He doesn't. That would be breaking the rules.

The drill is plunged into his wrist next, tearing through the cables and thin metal with a metallic whine. His left hand spasms in reflex, the motion causing the cables to flex and forcing them against the drill bit. Before he can become adjusted to the pain the drill is removed, and he is able to take two deep ventilations before it is plunged in again. This time he doesn't squirm, though the new wound is far too close to its predecessor. It's three short ventilations before the drill is turned off and taken away.

Energon is flowing down the medical berth, oozing from the torn lines in his wrist and the small nick in his side. He tries to twitch his fingers, experimentally, and is only met with a crackling spark from the wound and searing agony. The control cables have been severed.

Another hum, almost a sashay of the hips as the medic struts back to his instrument table. The drill is replaced by a scalpel, metal and deadly sharp. Knock Out drags the very tip of it across his blue chest, slicing into the derma so shallowly that he doesn't even feel a thing. A harsh contrast to the sudden agony as the blade is dug into his wrist, twisting and cutting into the existing wound. The blade is dragged upwards, a smooth movement like the stroke of a brush, and his arm is laid open up to the elbow. The medic examines the wound almost critically, then begins to systematically pull wires out, ripping them from their connectors.

It hurts. It hurts, but it's just beginning in the long game, and so he bites his glossa and rides out the pain. They have been partners for a long time, he and Knock Out, and the medic knows what he can take. It hurts, but it's no worse than an arm singed and studded with shrapnel.

It takes five shallow ventilations before he can get a grip on the pain. When his breathing slows again, the medic removes his fingers from the wound, wires and cables sliding off the long delicate digits to hit the floor with a muted splat. His arm is bleeding, but only the minor lines have been severed. Knock Out knows what he's doing.

The scalpel, sharp and coated in glowing blue, is still in the medic's hand. He can't help but watch how the light reflects off of it, the clatter it makes as it's dropped back onto the instrument table unnaturally loud. It distracts him from recognizing the next tool as a bolt-gun until it is pressed against the back of his right hand, a rod of steel pinning it to the berth underneath with the squeeze of a trigger. There's more energon, and it hurts, but it's only meant to keep his hand still. His ventilation only briefly hitches, and the new wound settles into a dull ache almost immediately.

Knock Out's fingers seem to dance over the tray, lingering on first one tool than another, before selecting a steel wedge and a mallet. He's still humming, following along with the human music playing in the background, as the narrow end of the wedge is pressed against his partner's blunt fingertips. Slowly, almost teasingly, the medic begins to tap at the wedge.

He can feel when it cuts through the thin dermal layer. Every slow, painful inch of progress it makes, tearing finely-tuned sensory bundles apart and scratching over internal servos. The energon from tiny severed lines does nothing to soothe away the friction. The hammering never increases in speed or pressure, even when he knows that the medic could split the finger in half with one smooth motion, and the little jerks and twitches make his hand spasm. He can _feel_ the scrape and rip of metal, the sharp stabs as sensory nerves short out, the crack and split of his knuckle joints, the burning agony as the end of the wedge finally comes to a rest at the base of his finger. The medic gives the wedge a final twist, and the top half of his finger flops off, connected to his hand by only the barest pieces of metal.

Before he can even think of steadying his ventilations, Knock Out begins on the next finger.

The pain is excruciating. The metal is thin, and lined with hundreds of tiny sensors, all fine-tuned to pick up pressure and pain. The slightest touch on the exposed wires hurts, and long before Knock Out had finished with his third finger, he has bitten through his lip in an effort to not make a sound. He lost control of his ventilations a while ago, and his fans have kicked on in an effort to cool a frame heating from stress. He almost misses the rattle of instruments as the mallet and wedge are returned to the tray.

The medic has a vial in his hands, inspecting it closely and giving it a little shake to mix its contents. He only knows this because Knock Out makes a point to show it to him, to hold it up as if he should recognize it. He probably should; he helps in the lab often enough to be intimately familiar with nearly every substance in stock. It doesn't stop the sudden hiss, the instinctive flail as a few drops of phosphoric acid are dripped onto the raw and bleeding shreds that used to be his fingers.

The medic is standing off to the side, a slight smirk on his pale face, as his partner writhes on the berth. There is even more energon on the floor now, and the bolt has nearly been ripped out of his hand. It takes a long time before he can regain control of himself, before the searing pain has faded enough that he can focus on his surroundings again. His ventilations are still shallow, and both of his arms are throbbing with pain, but he can tolerate it.

He has to. Knock Out is playing the long game tonight, and the game is only halfway over.

There is a new sound, and it takes him a moment to realize that the medic's engine is purring. A high growl, the whine of a finely-tuned engine designed for speed and racing. Long, finely sharpened claws press down onto the berth, and with a smooth motion the medic is straddling his waist. There are little pricks of pleasure, a ghosting touch over his chest and abdomen. The medic has put him back together more times than anyone else, and he knows where all the little weak points are in his armor. One of those talented hands trails up to his face, a thumb wiping the energon away from his lip in an almost tender gesture.

He wants to move his head away, to avoid the way the medic is staring into his single yellow optic. The tips of those sharp fingers have found the edge of his eyepatch, and they are pricking and scraping at it, scratching the thin derma of his face. He knows what's coming, and he can do nothing as the fingers finally slip under the patch. It is welded to face, meticulously connected to the remains of his optical sensors, and he can't help the gasp as it is unceremoniously ripped away in one smooth motion.

Immediately fingers are plunged into the empty socket, scratching and scraping at the delicate wires, and he can _hear_ the scratching inside his head. The medic is smirking down at him, and energon is running down his face, and he can't do a thing about it except for let it happen. He can't move, can't fight back, and it's too familiar, and he can't help the low whimper that comes from his vocalizer, nor his cooling fans kicking up a notch. It's exactly what the medic wants, and the whine of his engine gets louder.

Those sharp fingers finally withdraw, wiping energon on his trembling faceplates. Knock Out might have laughed, just a little chuckle, as he brings one claw to his mouth and licks his partner's blood off of it. It feels like the inside of his head has been scraped out, removed and put on display, leaving a gaping oozing wound for pain and terror and panic to rattle around in. He can't think anymore, and the berth rattles with the force of his shaking.

The sound of a transformation startles him, and he has no time to prepare before the medic's saw blade is dug into his side, tearing through the thick plating as if it were lead. The cry he makes is instinctive, and his slip up is rewarded by the saw spinning _slower_, ripping rather than cutting, energon pouring from severed lines and staining the medic's pale legs. He is cut in half, but not deeply, not deeply enough, and then split down the middle, right down his chestplates. The medic knows what he's doing, and only the minor lines are severed.

The medic is humming again, or maybe his engine is running almost rhythmically as he digs his claws into his partner's armor, using brute force to peel the metal away from the substructure. Something cracks, and half of his abdominal armor clatters to the floor. The cables and wires in his chest are soaked with energon, and Knock Out lovingly strokes the protective armor over his spark. He shudders at the sensation, alien amongst all the agony.

Wires are being pushed aside, ripped from their housings and discarded like scrap metal. He has to bite back another pained sound as those long sharp fingers scratch against his fuel tank, his spark casing, searching in the glowing blue mess that used to be his abdomen. The medic's hand wraps around something, giving it an experimental tug, and there is another soft chuckle as he spasms on the berth. Knock Out has found what he was looking for, and he loosens it enough to bring to the surface. A thick cable, its protective covering easily sliced apart by the medic's sharp fingers, revealing the glittering copper wires of a sensory bundle.

He sees the wires, and he shudders again.

He knows what's coming, or he thinks he knows, and he can't do anything to stop it. His chest, his arms, his eye; all raw and gaping wounds that throb with every pulse of his spark. The pain and fear are clouding his processor, and he can taste blood on his glossa from the self-inflicted damage to his mouth. He can't do anything but watch as the medic carefully looses wires from the bundle, each brush of his claws sending searing agony straight into his systems, and he nearly bucks Knock Out off of his lap. One energon-soaked hand pats his spark chamber, a mockery of understanding, and he whimpers in response. He wants it to be over, wants Knock Out to call an end to the game right here and now, and that high-performance engine revs in response to his terror. The sensory bundle had been exposed, all of its tiny and delicate wires seperated from their neighbor and splayed out across his chest, and he knows what's coming.

There are two small vials left on the instrument table, and the medic stretches almost sensually to reach them. He shakes them both, watching the substances inside rattle around and split into smaller parts, and grins as the one yellow optic focuses on them intently. The haze of pain does nothing to hide his pleas for mercy. One of the vials spews vapor as it's opened, the other a flame, and Knock Out leans in close to his audio as he dumps the substances all over the sensory wires.

"_Scream_."

He does.

All the pain and fear bubbles out of him like the energon out of his empty optical socket, and he discovers that once he starts screaming, he can't stop. His vocalizer gives a crackle, and he can taste energon on his glossa, and he just can't _stop_. His chest is on fire, and it's freezing, and he can do nothing but scream and thrash and try to get away. The pain and terror have increased and it's burning him up from the inside out and agonizing is far too small a word and he just can't stop _screaming_.

It feels like eternity. It _is_ an eternity. His processor is throwing up warnings, sensory overload, stasis lock imminent. The fire and ice on his chest have gone out, but the sensory wires are burned and frozen and the pain continues to wrack his body. His vocalizer is offline, and all he can spit now is static and thick energon. The medic is standing next to the berth, leaning on the instrument tray, and he can't remember throwing him off.

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to _think_.

His processor is slowing, stuttering, overwhelmed. The room is going dark, fuzzing into static, and he welcomes the escape with open arms. One long, delicate claw, the joints stained with glowing blue, brushes his cheek with faux gentleness, and with dimming optics he looks up. Knock Out is watching him, engine no longer revving, though his optics have not lost their hard edge.

"You're quite the mess, aren't you? Don't worry, the doctor is here to make you _all _better."


End file.
